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whataperfectwasteoftime · 6 months

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Forgive These Bones I'm Hiding (Part 1 of 2)

Pairing: Serial Killer Marcus Pike x f!Reader (Reader is a police officer with the nickname “Cricket”)

Rating: E (explicit smut, 18+ only)

Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: This is a Spoooooooky fic for Halloween season. Please heed the warnings; this is not darkfic, per se, but it explores dark themes and contains elements of suspense and horror. The following subjects are mentioned in the context of cases that the reader deals with. I do not go into explicit detail about any of these themes and any violence is implied rather than seen, but please heed the warnings for: child abuse, domestic abuse, alcoholism, drunk driving, implied sexual assault, suicide, drug use, drug overdoses. Whew. Okay, for the story itself, please be warned that there is: derogatory language (someone calls reader a “bitch”), murders, body horror (corpses!), Marcus Pike being a bit unsettling, Very Enthusiastic Pussy Eating, unprotected PIV sex (this is fiction! use protection and also maybe don't fuck a serial killer!)

Summary: When five paintings are stolen from their frames, an unusual crime for your small-town precinct in Hannibal, Missouri, it's easy for you to project your insecurities about being a female police officer in a tiny, Midwest town onto the handsome FBI Agent from Washington who arrives to help with the case. But as your disposition--and the solid walls you've built around yourself--begin to soften, you quickly find you have bigger problems than the charming man you can't help but develop feelings for. One by one, bodies are starting to pile up. Bodies that all seem to share one connection… You.

A/N: This story is about Marcus Pike if he were a serial killer. If this concept gives you The Ick, please do not read this and then come to me telling me that you think it’s icky. You have been warned. Dead dove don’t eat, etc. I *have* taken pains to ensure that Marcus is not a bad man. He’s a murderer, yes, but he only kills the worst that humanity has to offer. He’s a serial killer AND he’s my perfect, unhinged baby. Cool? Cool. Thank you to @littlebirdsbookshelf for encouraging this nonsense, letting me scream about it on Discord from day one, and reading through it and helping me with the police procedural bits!

Masterlist

When the call comes to your desk at 8:30am on a Monday morning, you can’t deny that your initial response is excitement.

Who could blame you? Not much happens here in Hannibal.

The waver in the elderly museum docent’s voice reminds you to temper your eagerness. With a steady, even voice, you patiently repeat the information she gives you. You don’t bother pointing out that she really should have called 911, rather than the police station directly; she’s one of many older residents in this town who prefer to skip the middle-man, so to speak, and you don’t really mind being the first voice people hear after a crisis.

“Window broken… alarm power cut… five Norman Rockwells,” you murmur to yourself as you scribble down the details on a post-it. “CCTV nonfunctional… broken… cameras for show only… Yes ma’am. Yep, I know the place. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“What was that?” Your CO asks from his office, not bothering to get up from his chair and come out into the bullpen. If you could even call it that. You’re the only regular inhabitant.

“Mrs. Ingram from the Mark Twain Museum. Someone broke in last night and cut five paintings from their frames.”

CO Hubbard squints, taking off his reading glasses and perching them on top of his head and staring at you like you’ve grown an extra head.

“Someone stole from the Mark Twain Museum?”

“Crazy, right? I’m heading there now.”

The older man grunts and nods, placing his bifocals back on his nose and returning his gaze to the Hannibal Courier-Post’s crossword.

You don’t bother turning on the lights on your squad car. The streets are damn-near empty on a Monday morning. Most of the residents’ shifts began hours ago at the factories downriver, leaving the small town to appear almost abandoned. For being the famed birthplace of one Samuel Clemens, it sure doesn’t bring much tourist traffic to Hannibal, Missouri.

Julia Ingram has been the Museum’s curator, docent, and gift shop operator since before you can remember. Despite her age, it seems as though she’s hardly changed from the time you visited the museum with your school group as a child. She greets you over thick wire frames kept in place with a whimsical beaded chain. Like most residents of Hannibal, she calls you ‘Cricket’–the nickname that’s stuck with you since your youth on account of your habit of sneaking out at night to stargaze. It’s hard to have much authority with the older citizens when they all remember you as a knobby-kneed preteen with a wild streak and a wilder imagination.

You let her lead you to the gallery of Norman Rockwell art on the second floor of the old building. You walk past old editions of Tom Sawyer, a collection of Mark Twain’s childhood possessions, and a life-sized raft similar to what Huck and Jim might have used on their Mississippi River journey.

The Norman Rockwell collection consists of fifteen paintings done for special editions of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. Today, though, there are only ten. Five frames are empty; broken shards litter the floor where the thief bashed through the glass to retrieve the priceless papers within.

“Why did they have to go and break them?” Mrs. Ingram asks in a tearful voice as you snap pictures on your little point-and-shoot camera you take with you for cases.

“Takes up less space,” you shrug. “Framed art is conspicuous. The perp probably rolled the illustrations up for ease of keeping them hidden.”

Mrs. Ingram shudders at the mention of rolling up Norman Rockwell illustrations, and you give her a sympathetic look.

“I’m going to call in a forensics team from the St. Louis office,” you tell the elderly woman. “They’ll be able to dust for fingerprints. In the meantime, the museum stays closed. No visitors. And don’t go around touching anything, okay? I should be able to get a security guard to watch the crime scene until forensics is able to come in. If you need anything, you call me,” you tell her, handing her a business card with your cell number.

You rush back to the precinct with the intent of calling an old schoolmate in St. Louis to try and expedite the forensics team, but Sergeant Hubbard is out in the bullpen for once, and seemingly waiting for you.

“I promised Mrs. Ingram that I’d get a forensics team down there ASAP,” you say, trying to sidestep the man and get to your desk.

“This won’t take long,” the Sergeant promises. “And actually, you won’t be needing to send a team. I’ve got that covered.”

“You do?” you ask, frowning skeptically.

“This case is of National interest,” Hubbard explains. “The FBI has a dedicated team of Agents that specialize in art crimes, and the State has all but ordered that we go through them.”

“You’re going to involve the FBI?” You try to keep your voice calm and even, but you can hear the volume begin to rise in indignation. For once you’ve got a case that’s different, interesting even, and it’s slipping through your fingers after barely an hour of being under your purview.

“If we do this by-the-book–”

“I can handle this myself,” you can’t help but interject. “And since when do you give a shit about ‘by-the-book?’”

“No one is questioning your capabilities–”

“Oh yeah? Is that why I’m always being stuck with every domestic violence case that comes through the precinct while you always handle the bigger shit?”

“You need to watch how you speak to a commanding officer,” Hubbard growls.

“Like it or not, I’m the one with a personal connection to both Mrs. Ingram and the head of Forensics in St. Louis. The FBI is going to come here with all the subtlety of a jackhammer, and–”

“It doesn’t really matter what you think, because I’ve already contacted the head of the Art Crimes Department in Washington, D.C., and someone should be here tomorrow morning to take the case.”

Your mouth is a thin line, your jaw tensed, and your eyes dark. “Anything else, Sir?”

“The precinct is behind state quotas for speeding tickets,” Sergeant Hubbard says. “I want you to try and catch people coming from Illinois on I-72.”

“Understood,” you bite out through clenched teeth.

Armed with a coffee and bagel from Java Jive, you settle in one of your “favorite” hiding places along the interstate. After putting the driver’s seat as far back as it will go so you can stretch your legs, you take a long sip of your latte. You flip on your radar, but rather than watch for speeders, you instead scroll aimlessly through the news on your phone.

Everyone’s gonna be going the speed limit today, you’ve already decided it.

The Waterhole isn’t exactly a reputable establishment, but as the only bar in Hannibal, the options for getting a cold beer aren’t exactly pouring in. Every patron looks warily in your direction when you enter–it’s tough on your social life, being one of three cops in town–but you’re hardly in the mood for conversation. Everything about you says “Fuck off”: from your mud-covered work boots to the flannel you use mainly to take out the garbage in the winter. You can’t remember the last time you threw it in the washer, but there’s a chill to the air tonight, and everything else was either dirty or far too heavy for the weather. Your dour expression probably does most of the work, though. You scowl at the floor as you plod heavily toward the end of the bar and sit yourself on a rickety stool. The footrest is predictably sticky, and the bartop never looks clean no matter how many times the long-time bartender, Palmer, runs a wet cloth over top of it.

You hold up two fingers in greeting to Palmer, who nods cordially and hands you your usual.

The first sip is always the best–and dammit, you intend to enjoy it. You close your eyes, letting the liquid wash over your tongue before swallowing. It’s just cheap lite beer, sure, but this is the first moment you’ve allowed yourself to truly relax all day, and you can already feel your shoulders begin to relax and your jaw unclench.

Casting your eyes around the establishment (a habit you can’t ever seem to get rid of), you take inventory of the patrons. Just about everyone you’ve known since childhood. There’s Ellis and Danielle Hewitt, high school sweethearts from the graduating class just above you, in the corner sharing a plate of sad-looking nachos and twin Miller Lites. Tommy Blevins, the high school quarterback who, if you were a betting woman, was probably in the middle of telling his Tinder date about that big game back in ‘02 that cemented his reputation as a Hannibal ‘celebrity.’ Most of the men playing pool were fresh off a day shift from the oil plant in the next town over.

Yep, all of the usual suspects.

Plus one anomaly.

Once you see him, you aren’t sure how he evaded your notice from the moment you entered the bar. For one thing, he’s the only patron wearing a suit; everyone here only ever wears jeans. For another, he’s got that look of an outsider about him. You can always tell who’s from out of town: they have that subtle hint of insecurity with their surroundings that comes from being in a new place. His dark eyes look over the bar scene with a fresh, discerning gaze–seeing it for the first time, rather than for the three hundredth.

Like you, the man seems to instinctively people-watch. He’s not obvious about it, or anything, but you can see his pupils flitting from the Rams game to scan the crowd as if he’s looking for something.

Or maybe waiting for something.

Given this behavior, it shouldn’t surprise you when your eyes eventually meet. Embarrassed at being caught-out, you give him a crooked not-really-a-smile. He smiles back–a genuine one, that exposes a set of perfectly straight, white teeth and a small dimple on his right cheek.

Your manners are hard to come by this evening, but you manage a friendly, albeit stiff nod, raising your beer bottle in a silent toast.

The man’s smile widens.

A commotion from over at the pool tables draws both of your gazes to the group of men–now seemingly arguing about the score. The main agitator is, predictably, Bobby Pearson. You drain your bottle with a sigh, shoulders tensing automatically as you anticipate the inevitable way that this ends.

You can see the glassy sheen to Bobby’s eyes from where you are, the way he’s swaying slightly as he gesticulates wildly with the hand holding the pool cue. You don’t need a breathalyzer to know that Bobby is way over the legal limit. Hell, all you have to do is spend more than a week in this town to know that this behavior is the norm, rather than the exception.

You feel bad for the man, really. It’s no secret that he came from an abusive home. You remember the horrifying stories you'd heard about his father when you were his classmate in middle school. He was a nice enough kid-you remember him well–but when he grew up and got married, he wasn't ever able to escape the demons of his past. His erratic behavior was enough for his wife to leave with their two children. Last you heard, they lived in Maine. Probably about as far away as you can get from Hannibal without actually leaving the continental US. What he needs is therapy, but those types of resources are damn-near impossible to get out here. Everyone in Hannibal looks the other way as he drinks himself into a stupor every night.

Occasionally, though, there will be an incident, and Bobby has to spend the night in the holding cells. You have a feeling you’re about to witness one of those incidents right now.

The waving of the pool cue becomes more violent; he switches his grip, wielding the stick like a weapon as he continues to yell, spittle landing on his cheeks and his shirt as he slurs another insult.

Getting up from your stool, you carefully approach the scene.

“That’s enough, Bobby,” you state calmly. “I think it’s time to head home, how about you?”

“I think it’s time for you to mind your own fucking business, Cricket,” Bobby slurs back.

“Good one, Bob. Got anything else you wanna say to the off-duty cop?” You shouldn’t be taking the bait–you know it even as you say it, but you’ve had a shit day, and sometimes we all say things we regret, right?

“Yeah. I wanna say… maybe you wouldn’t be such a fuckin' bitch if you had a good dicking.”

Several of Bobby’s pool buddies back away, eyes wide as dinner plates.

“That’s enough. Go home. I don’t want to have to place you under arrest,” you say, trying to regain control over the situation.

“I could give it to you," Bobby sneers. "Give the uptight police lady a nice, hard, fu–"

With a heavy sigh, you retrieve your cuffs from the back pocket of your Wranglers and maneuver Bobby onto the nearest pool table. He's so drunk that he falls on his stomach without much effort on your part.

"Aw, fuck I was only jokin’," he mumbles into the green fabric.

"And it was real funny, Bobby. Hilarious even," you deadpan as you click the handcuffs into place. "Come sleep it off at the precinct, and you can apologize in the morning."

"M'shorry," Bobby groans as you manage to wrench him upright and guide him to the exit.

It's only then that you notice the newcomer at the periphery of the scene–standing back, not intervening, but making it clear that he's on guard should things go south.

"Are you okay?" the stranger. "Need help?"

His nosiness annoys you. "Got it handled, thanks," you snap with a little more hostility than you mean to.

It's been a shit day.

You wrestle Bobby into the car and slam the door. On the way back to the precinct, you glower at the road in front of you while the man in the backseat begins an ear-splitting rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody. On tonight of all nights, you grumble to yourself.

He's asleep before he even hits the threadbare pillow in the holding cell. You nod to your nighttime counterpart, Evan, who gives you a sympathetic smile.

"What was it this time?"

"Some argument over pool at the Waterhole. Get him something substantial to eat when he wakes up, okay?"

"Always do," Evan replies. "You all right? He give you trouble or somethin'?"

"Just a shit day."

"Go get a drink and relax."

"'S'what I was trying to do," you gripe. "In fact–shit–I skipped out on my tab. I'm gonna go back and settle, and try again in the comfort of my own home. Dunno why I even go out."

“Beer’s cheaper at home, anyways,” Evan comments with a wry grin.

“Another excellent point,” you throw over your shoulder, giving him a crooked grin as you walk back out of the building.

Palmer is waiting for you with his hands on his hips when you return to the Waterhole.

“Not sure what you’re giving me that look for, Palm, you know I always settle my tab.”

“Better late than never,” he grouses.

You bark out a laugh. “You say that like it’s been a day, and not–” you check your watch, “–an hour.” You slide your debit card across the stained counter.

“Not gonna have another?”

“Nah, I’ve got better shit at home than the swill you serve here.”

You and Palmer stare each other down for a few moments. You aren’t sure who breaks first, but it’s almost always Palmer. The bartender chuckles and sticks his hands in his pockets.

“Shit, Cricket, you know you can’t stay away from the finest establishment in Hannibal.”

“It’s a good thing you’re the only establishment in Hannibal.”

“And it’s a good thing you’re a good tipper, or I would have banned you years ago.”

“Doesn’t seem smart to ban any of your customer base, considering the local population. It’s shocking you haven’t gone under.”

“Beer is always in demand,” Palmer says with a wink. “No matter what the economy’s doin’.”

“You’ve got me there.”

You glance around the bar. The crowd has thinned out quite a bit; day shifts start early, so the nightlife is pretty limited past eight pm. A few stragglers remain, including… him. The stranger.

The newcomer in the suit is watching your conversation with the bartender with an amused smile. When he notices you looking at him, he raises his glass in salutation and gets up from his stool to approach you.

“Buy you another?” he asks with a smile.

“I just settled,” you say evasively.

“On me,” the man insists.

“Surprised you’re still here,” you comment lightly. “Shouldn’t you be back on your way to St. Louis, or something?”

The man lets out a surprised, pleased laugh. “You’re observant.”

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re not from around here.”

He gives you another one of those wide, toothy smiles as he raises two fingers to Palmer, who nods.

“Well, you’re partly right. I’m not from around here, but I’m not from St. Louis.”

“Where are you from?”

“Let’s save that little nugget for later,” he suggests, sticking out his hand. “Marcus.”

You shake his hand, still feeling a little wary of the newcomer. If Marcus is bothered that you don’t offer your name right away, he doesn’t show it.

“...Cricket, right?”

You laugh in surprise. “That’s what everyone calls me ‘round here.”

“What can I call you?”

“Officer.”

Palmer sets two bottles of beer down on the counter in front of you, and you shrug and take one of them. Marcus gently taps his own against yours and takes a sip.

“To new horizons,” he says with a smile.

“To doing the same shit every damn day,” you respond with a wry grin.

“Do you do that every single day?” Marcus asks, jerking his head in the direction of the pool tables, referencing Bobby’s arrest.

You let out a huff of laughter and take another swig. “More than I’d care to, I’ll say that much.”

“He have a history of drunk and disorderly conduct?” Marcus asks.

“He’s got a history of that, and a whole helluva lot else,” you say with a sigh. “He’s mostly harmless, though. Doesn’t do much else but drink and cause trouble nowadays.”

“He did worse in the past?”

You shrug and wave Marcus off. “It’s a tale as old as time,” you say. “Grew up in an abusive household and then turned around and perpetuated it himself when he grew up. Pushed away his family, his wife, his kids, everyone really. But now the only one he ever hurts is himself.”

“He said some pretty awful things to you earlier,” he points out.

“If words had any effect on me, I wouldn’t have made it a week in the force,” you say. “Takes a lot more than that to rile me up.”

“Can’t really imagine you all riled up,” Marcus says, his eyes twinkling with playfulness.

He’s flirting with you.

“I save it for special occasions.”

“So what, you just arrest this guy over and over again, letting him sober up in the holding cells until he does it again?”

Your smile fades. Tipping your bottle back and draining it in three large gulps, you set it down heavily on the table and give the man across from you a stony look.

“I don’t know what big city you’re from, Marcus, but this town is different. We take care of our own, no matter how difficult they’re being. We’ve done everything we can–tried to get him into rehab, into therapy programs, support groups… it never sticks. At this point, he’s spinning out, and the most I can try to do is to treat him with kindness and make sure he gets a decent meal while he’s sleeping it off in the drunk tank. Enjoy your night.”

You get up, spin on your heel, and you don’t look back at the man again.

You don’t know how you didn’t put two and two together until this moment–the minute you walk into the precinct at eight am sharp to meet the FBI Agent assigned to this case–your case.

The suit. The discerning, assessing gaze. The bravado. The big-city attitude.

Marcus is the FBI Agent.

His eyebrows raise for a moment when you walk into the bullpen, but other than that, he doesn’t appear surprised. He introduces himself as Agent Pike, sticking his hand out for you to shake as if it’s the first time he’s done so. You give him your last name–and only your last name–and grip his hand a little more forcefully than usual.

It only causes his smile to widen.

You exchange a quick conversation with Evan, who fills you in on the rest of the night (uneventful) and lets you know that Bobby is already out of the drunk tank and back at home.

“Did he say anything?” you ask.

“Like what?”

“Like an apology.”

“Should he have?” Evan asks. “Did he do something last night?”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s fine. He probably doesn’t even remember, anyway,” Turning to look at Marcus, you add, “Ready to head to the museum?”

He takes up all the space in the passenger seat of your squad car and then some. You do your best to ignore him as you drive, but your eyes keep returning to his dark, slightly mussed hair and the way his broad shoulders fill out that suit of his. It’s hard not to notice how attractive he is.

"So. Washington."

"Huh?" Marcus looks at you, questioning.

"That little 'nugget' of information you said you'd save for later. You knew, didn't you. You knew I was the cop on this case."

"Well, it wasn't hard to guess when I had a copy of the Hannibal city directory and there was only one female officer on staff."

"Guess you've got us all figured out, huh," you mutter irritably, and the car returns to silence.

“Mark Twain Lighthouse,” Marcus reads from a road sign, breaking the quiet. “Mark Twain Memorial Library, Mark Twain Museum.”

“Bet you can guess what this town is famous for,” you quip.

“How many guesses do I get?”

“I mean, I’d hope you already knew about our claim to fame, if you read even one sentence of the case file we sent you.”

“You mean the case about the five missing original illustrations by Norman Rockwell from Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn from the Mark Twain Museum?” Marcus says wryly.

You scowl at his nonchalance. You knew it; you knew the FBI would send some big city asshole who didn't give two shits about the town's heritage.

"I'm sorry," Marcus says, suddenly looking concerned. "Did I say something wrong?"

"This was my case, you know," you mutter, keeping your eyes on the road. "Finally, something besides domestic disputes handed to 'Officer Cricket,' and I have it for less than twenty-four hours before some Washington bigwig comes and takes it off my hands."

"Wha–hey, hang on a second. That's not what this is," Marcus insists.

"Isn't it?"

"No. No, it's not like that. I'm here in a consulting role. You still get credit for being the lead officer on the case, but it'll be our forensics team and our analysts providing support. That's it."

You look sidelong at Marcus. His expression is open and unguarded, and you can't detect any dishonesty in his body language.

"That's it?" you repeat cautiously.

"Is that what all the animosity was about?" Marcus asks, without any malice in his tone.

You mumble something about having a chip on your shoulder, and Marcus chuckles beside you.

"I wasn't always from Washington, you know," he says.

"No?"

"Little town called Bastrop."

"Bastrop?" you laugh. "Never heard of it."

"Little place just east of Austin," Marcus says, letting a little bit of southern drawl slip into his voice.

"You're from Texas," you say, surprised.

"Yes ma'am," he answers playfully. “I worked out of the FBI field office in Austin for almost ten years before getting promoted to HQ.”

“Congrats.” You give him a small smile as you pull into the museum parking lot. “This is it.”

Marcus charms Mrs. Ingram immediately, which doesn’t really surprise you at this point. The man seems to be made up of mostly charm, with a side of goofy jokes. The FBI’s forensics team won’t be at the museum for another hour, so Marcus takes inventory of the crime scene, snapping a few photos while you chat with Phil, the security guard.

When Marcus’s team arrives, the scene is a flurry of activity. Evidence is bagged, frames are dusted, and more pictures are taken. True to his word, Marcus defers to you, letting you run the scene despite clearly having a relationship with most of the team.

The day is a busy one–after spending the entire morning at the museum, you head back to the precinct to complete all the paperwork. Marcus buys the precinct lunch, and as you eat, he ends up launching into an informal, unintended lecture about art preservation, restoration, and how important it is to properly care for stolen art that his team has recovered. It makes you see him in a new light–not simply a representative of a faceless, uncaring organization that’s coming in to take over your case, but the leader of a team who cares deeply about every item they’re tasked with recovering. The man himself is painfully competent, every sentence out of his mouth demonstrating his level of experience and his love for the field.

Despite not knowing much about art yourself, you find his enthusiasm addictive. You can’t help but engage with him–asking about past cases he’s been on and listening intently to his stories, which range from the mundane to the incredibly dangerous.

“...so a couple of us ended up going undercover and smuggling our own recovered artifacts back across the border,” Marcus is explaining, waving the remains of his sandwich in the air as he smiles fondly over what sounds to you like a harrowing escape from a Mexican cartel.

You know you’re hanging off of every word, although you try very hard not to look like you’re hanging off of his every word. Still, the lunch break runs long, and suddenly you remember you were supposed to be back on patrol an hour ago.

“Shit,” you hiss, checking the time, making Marcus wince sympathetically.

“Listen to me, rambling on and keeping you from doing your job,” he says self-deprecatingly. “Seriously, tell me to shut up next time.”

He stands when you do, offering his hand for you to shake.

“Here,” you say, handing him your card instead, which has your work cell on it. “Just in case there’s any issues.”

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, looking into your eyes. “Thanks for entrusting this case to us–I know there’s always a level of territoriality that comes with involving the FBI, but I’m here to promise that the whole point is to work with you–not to come in and take over.”

You nod, and finally accept his hand, shaking it firmly. “We got off on the wrong foot, but I’m glad you’re here. You’re obviously more than knowledgeable about the field–more so than any of us–and I know I can speak for all of us when I say we appreciate the extra support.”

Marcus’s hand is warm against yours. The handshake might be firm, but it still feels as though he’s cradling your hand gently–as if he’s holding something delicate and precious in his palm. His eyes are endless; you feel as though you could read every emotion within them if you looked long enough. As you look, the corner of his mouth pulls up in an adorable, crooked grin.

“It was good to work with you today,” he says with finality. “See you bright and early tomorrow.”

You aren’t expecting the call that comes in the next morning–before you can even show up at the precinct to work with Marcus on the art theft case.

Bobby Pearson’s landlady, barely understandable through her hiccuping tears, explaining that she usually lets herself in to give him his mail, found the man hanging from the ceiling fan in his living room.

Your heart hammers dully in your chest as you notify the coroner and drive–lights on, this time–to Bobby’s place, with Sergeant Hubbard in tow.

“Cricket,” his landlady sobs as you get out of the squad car.

“I know,” you say soothingly, putting a hand on her shoulder to provide what little comfort you could.

“It’s awful. Oh, God, he’s just hanging there, and–”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to talk about it. Why don’t you stay out here and wait for the Coroner while we go in, ‘kay?”

You take a deep breath to center yourself, then open the door to Bobby’s little duplex apartment.

“Jesus,” Hubbard mutters behind you.

You swallow hard at the sight of the man suspended from the ceiling fan. The inherent wrongness of witnessing a dead body never ceases to unsettle you. You think you could do this job for five hundred years and still never become desensitized to death. It’s the stillness that disturbs you the most; no one realizes how much bodies move until they aren’t doing it.

You glance around the room, taking in the toppled chair a few feet away. Fuck. You knew Bobby was spiraling, but you had no idea it was this bad. You think back to the other night–were there signs that you missed? Something that could have alerted you to the fact that he was in crisis?

The flash of a camera lights up the dim room, and you flinch.

“Sorry,” Hubbard mumbles. His face is grim as he snaps a few more pictures–the rope, the chair, Bobby’s puffy, swollen face–

Feeling nauseous, you look down at your shoes.

Somewhere in the apartment, something beeps.

“Fuck was that?” Hubbard wonders.

“Sounded like it was coming from the kitchen.” You move further into the house to investigate. In the kitchen, nothing immediately stands out to you, until you realize the microwave timer is blinking the word “END” in perpetuity, alerting an occupant who can no longer hear that his food is ready.

Frowning, you open it, taking in the reheated frozen dinner sitting–cold, but unfrozen–on the turntable.

“That’s weird,” you mumble.

“What’s weird?” Hubbard asks behind you.

“He made dinner, but didn’t eat it. If he was planning on killing himself, why make dinner? Why leave it in the microwave without eating it?”

Hubbard shrugs. “Forgot, I guess.”

Your frown deepens as you stare at the colorless potatoes and rubbery salisbury steak. Awareness tingles at the base of your spine–a little nagging voice whispering This isn’t right.

The sound of the front door opening again makes you jump.

“Hoooo, boy…” the Coroner breathes upon entering. “Dammit, Bobby.”

In your years as a cop, you’ve already learned that dealing with a body is an all-day affair. The day seems to pass you by as you deal with the fallout–phone calls, paperwork, and of course, the solemn affair of cutting Bobby down from the fan in the most respectful way possible. You don’t even remember to look at your phone until just before your shift ends–so the text message from Marcus that reads, “Time to jump on a quick call re: forensics?” is hours-old by the time you see it.

You tap out “Sorry, had a work thing come up that occupied the whole day. Connect tomorrow am?”

The reply is almost instantaneous. “Buy you a drink after a rough day?”

Your thumbs pause over the keypad. On the one hand, going out for drinks with Marcus makes you feel uneasy. There’s a mutual attraction there, you can tell that much, and you don’t trust yourself not to indulge in a little stress relief if Marcus tries to initiate it.

And you have a feeling he might. Try, that is.

On the other hand, coming home to an empty house with nothing to keep you company but the image of Bobby Pearson’s oddly dangling feet that’s branded on your eyelids makes you physically recoil.

“I’d ask where, but I think we both already know the answer.”

“I’ll be there around seven,” comes Marcus’s response.

At home, you turn the knobs in the shower until the temperature causes steam to fill the entire bathroom. The water burns your skin, but the pain is welcome, and you aren’t sure how long you remain unmoving under the stream until the hot water abruptly runs out. Yelping in shock, you hastily squirt some body wash onto a rag and frantically rub it up and down your body, then spin around under the stream three times as fast as you can to remove the suds before turning off the faucet.

Shivering and dripping wet, you suddenly start to laugh.

Marcus is already seated at the bar of the Waterhole when you arrive. The suit coat is gone, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows as he nurses a whiskey. You’re suddenly conscious of the fact that you’re dressed quite a bit nicer than you were on the night you met him–you even wore the non-muddy boots… and the jeans that you know make your ass look good.

“Hey,” you say by way of greeting, sliding onto the barstool next to him.

Marcus slides an identical cocktail glass over to you. “Thought you might need something a little stronger than beer,” he comments.

You snort. “How did you know?”

He shrugs, a faint glimmer in his eye as he watches you take a sip and wince at the burn in your throat.

“Had a hunch,” he offers.

“Well, it was right,” you sigh. “Might need a few more of these tonight.”

“Must have been one for the record books.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “Not really. Just another fucking day.” You take another sip, and the burn is more welcome this time. “I think the fact that it’s so common is what so fucking depressing.”

Marcus doesn’t ask you what you mean, and for that, you’re grateful.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” you grumble to yourself. “Suicides, or Fentanyl overdoses.”

Your companion is quiet for a long time. You aren’t in any shape to try and steer the conversation, so you take a few more sips of whiskey and stare into the middle distance.

“What made you want to become a cop?”

You snort again, even more unattractively this time. “Ten years ago I would have told you it was to help people and keep the community I grew up in safe.”

“What about now?”

Only one more sip remains in your cocktail glass, so you throw your head back and drain it, setting it down heavily on the counter. Palmer glances in your direction, a question in his eyes, and you nod.

“I don’t fucking know,” you sigh. “Ask me tomorrow, maybe I’ll have a better answer then.”

Palmer brings over the bottle of Crown and pours another finger into your glass.

“What about you,” you ask, only because it seems like the correct way to continue the conversation. “What made you join the FBI?”

Marcus grins, showing those perfectly straight teeth of his. At this distance, it seems less friendly and almost… predatory. You blink rapidly, shaking your head to dispel the thought.

He tips his glass against yours, then drains it himself. “To make the world a better place, of course.” His smile is wry as he signals Palmer for another.

“How’s that going for you?” you ask. The question is tinged with sarcasm.

“Depends on the day, I suppose.”

“Ha. Fair.” You take another sip. “Guess it’s the same for me. Some days it feels like I’m making a difference. Other days it feels like I’m filling speeding ticket quotas so that the town gets enough fucking tax revenue for the year.”

“Hey now, getting the funds to fix potholes is a noble and worthy cause.”

“I dunno where it fucking goes, but judging by the state of 36, it ain’t going there,” you chuckle.

“I happen to think you’re making a huge difference,” Marcus says soberly. “You get to do real, concrete things to help real people. One of the things I had to get used to in DC was that I didn’t feel like I was helping individuals anymore. It’s so much more high-level, sometimes I feel like all I do is send emails and have meetings. That’s why I like consulting,” he says, grinning at you. “I get to go to towns like this and actually talk to people.”

You pause with your glass halfway to your lips. “I… I guess I’ve never thought of it that way before.”

“You do good work,” Marcus tells you softly. His voice is full of sincerity; his eyes are deep, endless pools, and it feels as though they’re drawing you in. Licking your lips, you can feel the effect of the whiskey already by the way the skin of your tongue tingles slightly.

“Thanks,” you say quietly. You aren’t sure what else to say.

Your second glass is emptier than you thought. Had you really drunk it that fast? You huff a small laugh out of your nose, and swallow the last mouthful of whiskey. It barely even burns anymore.

“‘Nother?” you ask, blinking hopefully at your companion.

“If you like,” Marcus replies, giving Palmer a polite wave.

“Ain’t nothing at the bottom of the bottle,” the bartender teases, refilling both of your glasses. “You two seem to be convinced otherwise, though.”

You ignore him and quickly take another sip, making Marcus laugh.

“They say there’s only two kinds of people,” he says. “Those who drink to remember, and those who drink to forget.”

“If you’re about to ask me which kind I am, then you haven’t been paying attention to the conversation we’ve been having,” you tell him.

“You drink to forget,” Marcus supplies. “You’re right, I don’t need to ask to know that.”

“Then what was the point of… of the thing you said?” you ask, frowning in confusion.

“I drink to remember,” Marcus says quietly, staring soberly at his glass.

“Remember what?”

“People. Old loves, old friends.” He takes a small sip. “The living, and the dead.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. Your tongue feels thick in your mouth.

“What else do you want to forget?” Marcus asks gently.

“So I dunno if you are aware,” you say, swaying slightly in your seat as you gesticulate, “but female ossifers–officers–uh, they’re often handed sexual assault cases, domestic abuse, fuckin’... fuckin’ child neglect, that kind of shit. And I’ve had… I’ve–” you break off with a shudder.

“Had your fair share of those, huh?” he says, covering your hand in his.

“Mmm, ’s'warm,” you remark, closing your eyes and basking in the feeling. “It’s… it’s the ones that weren’t brought to justice that keeps me up at night,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “Sympathetic judges who give rapists light sentences. Wives whose request for a restraining order went ignored. Kids who–” you let out a tiny sob, “–kids who are spending their childhood in foster care because both of their parents overdosed in front of them. I… I fucking tried. I fought hard for them, and in the end, does it matter? Does it matter, when they’ll be fucked up for life anyway?”

“It matters,” Marcus says, his voice suddenly firm. “It fucking matters, Cricket.”

“Every time they walk free, it eats at me,” you continue, emptying your third glass.

“Tell me,” he demands softly as Palmer automatically pours you another. “You’ve been carrying their names with you for years, maybe this is how you let it go.”

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